


at night i hear her breathe (it sounds like explosions)

by ghostmachine



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: And I'm not sorry, F/F, it's fluff, it's literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4428377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmachine/pseuds/ghostmachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It makes you shiver, feeling her so close, feeling her want you in this dark room by the sea. And you love her. You love her. So you show her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at night i hear her breathe (it sounds like explosions)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Jon Foreman's Siren's Song and the fact that I'm a pro at avoiding canon angst.

The windows of your hotel room are thrown wide open, the thick chiffon curtains blowing in and out with the breeze and it's like her breath: in and out, gradually, beautiful because it's never the same thing twice. She sits on a chair in the corner, her hair pulled up into a messy bun and her soft, white robe slipping off one shoulder. Her brow furrows as she scrolls through her phone and her eyes keep drooping; after a full and exciting day, you know she's exhausted. But you've asked her to join you for a bath because you'd yet to use the large clawfoot tub in your room and it had been on your mind all day.

The corners of your mouth pull into a small smile at the sight of her. You're leaning against the doorway of the bathroom in a robe identical to hers and you can hear the rush of the tide just outside your hotel and you are washed in the serenity this trip has afforded the both of you. She'd been so stressed the past few months, adjusting to a new position at a major broadcast network and fighting to prove herself. You had told her endlessly not to worry, that she was going to redefine the journalism industry without even lifting a finger, and you believed it wholeheartedly. But when she remained skeptical and constantly frazzled, you'd talked her boss into giving her a week to unwind, something she hadn't given herself after graduation. You've only been in Hawaii for a few days but you could tell she was already in a much better headspace. You know it'll be your job to help her maintain it back home.

She's leaning her head on her hand now, clearly struggling to stay awake.

"Cupcake, I think you should just hit the hay," you say, your voice slow and deep. But she just shakes her head.

"Nuh uh, Carm," she says, her words slurring together sleepily, "we did what I wanted all day. And besides..." she trails off into a yawn, stretching her arms upwards to wake herself, "...it's only 9! I should not be this tired. Stupid jetlag."

You chuckle softly before walking into the bathroom. You can't argue with her--not when you've wanted her close all day.

"If you insist, darling."

You test the bath water with one hand, judging the temperature carefully. It's harder for you to feel the extremes; she's joined many a shower with you before quickly jumping out, yelling at you for scalding yourself. It doesn't burn you, but it will burn her, and that's not a risk you're willing to take.

"Laur," you call out, just loud enough for her to hear, "can you come check the temperature?"

She saunters in lazily, her feet dragging a little, but her face lights up when she sees the tub.

"Bubbles!" she exclaims before plunging a hand into the water, and you watch her closely.

"Yes, bubbles. And I thought I'd light some candles. Is it okay?" you ask, nodding your head toward the water.

She looks up at you from where she's crouched by the tub and smiles again. God, that smile.

"Perfect!"

You light a few small candles and place them on the countertop before flicking off the light, the room suddenly bathed in darkness and moonlight and fire simultaneously. You turn to face her and suck in a breath when you see she's already discarded her robe, and you think she's never looked more exquisite. The curve of her neck shines bright where the moon hits it, and you note the abundance of freckles already forming on her shoulders from sun exposure. You can see tiny flames reflecting in her dark pupils, and she breathes in time with the distant ocean. She is every element and you struggle to put two words together.

"Well, I was going to tell you to get naked, cupcake, but I guess you beat me to it."

She laughs before walking up to you, pulling at the knot of your robe, pushing the sleeves down your arms slowly. Your eyes lock and you're overwhelmed by how close she is, how she smells like sun and sand, how a few blonde-streaked hairs have fallen from her bun to coil on her shoulders. She holds your gaze for a moment before scrunching her nose up, bumping it against your own. She's always incredibly affectionate when she's tired, and tonight is no exception.

She turns to hang your robe next to hers on the door hook. You're not sure if she's swaying her hips intentionally or not, but it's definitely getting to you, and after she closes the door completely she catches you staring and blushes. You think for the hundredth time tonight how lovely she is, her cheeks rosy, her eyes cast down as she makes her way toward you.

She takes your hand in hers and it burns, you swear, because you can't feel fire but you can feel the way your skin feels pressed together and you think it might be the same thing.

You step into the tub, reclining against the back and stretching your legs. You flex your toes and are pleasantly surprised when you don't meet the resistance of the tub's edge--your bath at home is rather small, so when the two of you do decide to use it, you're cramped, uncomfortably curled around Laura's body. But your apartment seems distant now as you hold Laura's hand still, steadying her as she carefully steps between your legs. You guide her down gently, as if she's made of the same marble as the bathtub. As if she might break if you hold her too tight, drop her too quickly.

You're surprised at how gracefully she eases into you--you thought she might require extra assistance in her exhausted state, but she holds her own. It's simple and the world is big and you're both so insignificant in comparison but you fall in love with her again, again, fall for the tiny things she doesn't even know she does.

You're not sure if these are things you're allowed to say; she knows you love her, knows the extent to which you adore her, and you know, logically, that she feels the same, but there's still that nagging insecurity, the one born in your own humanity and having followed you to this afterlife. You're not sure if you can tell her you think she may be an angel sent for you, that you've been in heaven all along, not hell, because maybe when she realizes she can, she'll fly away. So you stick to the safer sweet nothings, the ones that make her pull you closer.

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms strong around her middle. You can feel the remnants of the beach on her skin, the thin slime of the ocean and the sand still stuck to her. You make a face she doesn’t see, so you swipe a hand over her stomach, pulling bubbles into your hand to clean her.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a dirty girl, creampuff?” Your voice is light; you love teasing her, if only to see the outraged faces she makes in response. You know she hates it when you’re so crass (except, of course, when your hands are busy with other parts of her body), but you can’t help yourself.

“Carm!” She turns, slapping your arm lightly before pulling your hand away from her stomach. “You are so bad. This is why _I_ suggested a shower, but _someone_ had her heart set on a bath. The same someone, if I remember correctly, who tackled me into the water. _And_ couldn’t keep her sandy hands to herself while _I_ was trying to nap on the beach.” You’re guilty on both accounts, and you laugh at her scrunched face.

“Can you really blame a girl?”

She rolls her eyes but kisses your cheek anyways and you think loving her is so easy. You feel her melt into you, her back against your front, and she makes no move to wash herself so you grab a nearby loofa off the countertop, dipping it in the thick layer of bubbles before lifting her arm, rubbing gently. She hums in appreciation as you move from her arms down to her torso, swiping the underside of her breasts. You follow the familiar curve of her stomach down to her thighs, gently washing them before placing a hand beneath her knee, urging her to bend it so you can reach her shins. You clean between her grimy toes and back up her other leg, making a last stop at her collarbone.

“There,” you whisper in her ear, your cheek pressed against her neck, “all clean.” She shivers and you drop the loofa in the water, forgotten. You can see her eyes are closed and you wonder if she’s close to sleep. You’re content to let her nap there, simultaneously suspended in water and grounded against your body, because the contrast is so alluring and she’s all soft curves and the room is thick with the smell of lavender and ocean spray. The candles cast flickering shadows against the walls as a breeze blows through the window, threatening to extinguish them. You’ve never been one to savor moments, feeling with each passing decade the increasing fluidity of time, the futility of the common desire to stop it in its tracks. But some poetic, sentimental part of you wishes absently that if someone were to write a book about the two of you, about this giant thing that pulls you together like the sea to the shore, they’d include this scene, and they’d write about how her skin still tastes like salt when you press a kiss to her neck. You’re not a writer, not really, so you stick to the poetry you write against her veins as she breathes in deeply.

It’s nice, how quiet the night is; you’re used to Laura talking your ear off, and while you never mind her doing so (despite how much crap you give her for it), you’re glad she’s feeling calm enough to shut down, and you wonder if she knows just how much peace her steady heartbeat brings you. You can hear her blood rushing as easy as the waves outside. You wonder if she’s slipping into sleep.

When you pull back to look at her, though, she cranes her head back, her eyes dark with something familiar. She leans back to brush her lips softly against your own, so softly you barely feel her. And all you want is to feel her, so you wrap a hand around to her cheek, pulling her in close, kissing her deeply once, twice. You break from her, your hand still caressing the smooth skin of her face. Your eyes are closed but you hear her breathing heavy and you finally take a breath of your own, fighting against your own biology to share this with her. Her breath fills your lungs and it’s sweeter than you imagined. She kisses you again.

“Thought you were tired, sweetheart,” you mumble against her lips, but she shakes her head, offering a simple “ _shhh_ ” before closing the distance between you again, again.

She seeks your hand beneath the warm water, entwining your fingers. She pulls it above the surface, bringing the back of your hand to her lips and kissing it, marking you as her own. You want to tell her as much, to tell her that whatever remains of you after centuries of wandering belongs to her here because you feel found in the best way. But you remember her shushing and decide to kiss her instead, hoping she feels it anyways.

She flattens her hand against the back of yours, pushing it beneath the water once more and guiding it to cover her breast. You run your tongue along her bottom lip lightly and she opens her mouth, her breath shaking out a sigh into your own mouth. You pull her lip between your teeth because you know she loves it, because she’s told you so in much more heated moments. But this is slow, an intimacy that runs bone deep and it makes you shiver, feeling her so close, feeling her want you in this dark room by the sea. And you love her. You love her. So you show her.

You squeeze your hand and hers curls around yours, encouraging you to touch her, but you don’t need any prompting. You brush your palm against her nipple, feeling it harden, and she moans quietly when you pull it between your thumb and index finger. They’ve always been your favorite sounds, her moans, but there’s something about her voice mingling with the crashing waves, and you think the tide might be coming in when you lean down to suck at her neck, when she cries out into the night. Her head drops back against your shoulder, allowing you the expanse of skin from her ear to her collarbone, and you write your name with your tongue, your fingers still working as you suck a mark at her pulse point.

“God,” she breathes, and you smile against her skin, leaning over to press a kiss to her lips. She breathes your name into your mouth as she guides your hand with hers down her stomach. You resist her slightly, opting to brush your fingertips against the smooth insides of her thighs, and you hum, exploring her mouth with your tongue as you feel the heat between her legs. You’re grateful you can feel the difference between her and the water, grateful she’s the one extreme your skin registers.

You can feel her body straining, tightening, pushing out into your hand, and as you watch her eyelids droop shut, her eyelashes fluttering, you know you can’t deny her. She whispers a “ _please_ ” against your ear but you’re already touching her, rubbing at her delicately, and then she’s gasping hot moans into you. You feel made to worship this girl, born to make her feel like she is the center your universe, called to love her this way, every way, to make her shatter in the safety of your arms where you can put her back together again.

Your fingers brush lower, running against her, feeling how much she wants you. You marvel at her and feel your own legs twitch when she grabs your hand once more, guiding your fingers inside of her. They slip in easily and you whisper her name like it’s holy, like it’s the only word you know.

“ _Laura_.”

She’s desperate now and you know she’s already so far gone. You move inside of her slowly, the awkward angle inhibiting your movement, but you curl two fingers where you know it’ll make her scream. And she does, her throat scratchy from the ocean water you’re sure she swallowed today, and you press fervent kisses to the back of her neck when she arches forward. You bring your hand around to cup her breast again and she’s grinding against you, calling out your name.

And no matter how grossly sentimental it is, you never want this moment to end.

She’s tightening around your fingers, though, so close you can taste it. Wildly, she seeks your mouth, her kisses sloppy and intermingled with moans and gasps when your palm rubs against her. You’ve been together for over four years now, but it never ceases to amaze you how _soft_ she is, how delicate and beautiful she is when she loses herself in you.

"Baby," she whimpers, her free hand tangling in your hair, “I can’t.” She's wrecked for you, and it's the most gorgeous thing you can imagine: knowing she needs you like this, knowing you can give her exactly what she needs. Now you’re the one shushing, reassuring her that you'll catch her when she's falling because sometimes you think it's the only thing in the world worth doing.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” It’s reverent, the most honest thing you could say, and you can tell she believes it because she lets go, arching up and releasing your name like a prayer as the tide swells.

You work her down gently, pressing kisses to her temple as she relaxes boneless on top of you. You pull your fingers from her slowly and wrap her in your arms. Her hand twirls the wet ends of your wavy hair as her breathing evens.

Without thinking, you’re humming a soft tune for her, and her breath accompanies you like small explosions of rhythm. You stay like that, suspended with her here outside of time and place. You know she’s falling asleep when her hand drops lazily from your hair to the water. She stretches her fingers slightly, as if searching for something.

“The bubbles are all gone,” she pouts, her words blending together, and you press a kiss to her hairline.

“I know. Let’s get you to bed.”

“'Kay,” she responds, but doesn’t move, and you can hardly believe this is the same woman who seduced you just moments ago. She’s adorable--there’s no other word for it--and you feel your chest constrict.

“That’s gonna require you getting off me, cupcake.” You laugh as she flounders, helping to push her up.

“'Kay.”

Her eyes are still shut as she stands and she wobbles a little. You stand quickly to hold her steady, stepping out of the tub with a hand on her shoulder. You pull the plug to drain the water before grabbing towels off the rack, quickly drying yourself before wrapping one around her. She’s still half asleep, looking odd standing in the draining tub with her mouth half open, and you smirk as you run the towel down her arms and legs. Judging her acceptably dry, you reach behind her knees and under her arms to scoop her up easily. You stop quickly to blow out the candles before carrying her to bed, setting her down on top of the duvet.

She’s asleep before her head hits the pillow, and you kiss her forehead before rounding the bed to lay down next to her.

You breathe in deeply, unnecessarily, allowing the moment, this new moment, to fill you. The ocean is quiet again, the tide receding, and the moon shines bright through the windows. You don’t bother to close them--you’re not sure you could get up right now even if you wanted to. You’d been so focused on her exhaustion that you didn’t recognize your own until now, with her asleep next to you. You let your eyes drift shut.

She groans quietly and you’re looking at her again, wondering if maybe she’s cold. You start pulling up the blankets as her brow furrows, and you’re draping a sheet over her when she says it.

“I wanna go to the ocean.” And then she’s unconscious again, her face tranquil and her breathing even. You pull her into you, your arm draping protectively over her waist. You lay your head in the crook of her shoulder and feel yourself drifting off to sleep.

“We’re already there, love.”


End file.
